


Paint My Soul Anew

by aliciutza



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Jonerys Week 2019, So enjoy poet jon, also you get some smut, and some jon being completely head over heels, but like without season 8, i have this thing in my head that tells me that jon is actually kind of a poet, we dont know her in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 18:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciutza/pseuds/aliciutza
Summary: Written for Jonerys Week 2019 - Day 3: ColoursHe's not a bloody poet, that's what he has always said, yet ever since he stumbled into her life he can't help but feel like one.It's as if the doors to the Throne Room in Dragonstone have opened to a hidden world, full of beauty and wonder; as if his senses had been dulled in his death and now they have finally awaken.Colours have never been as vivid to him as the moment his eyes fall on the Queen. So he admires them from a distance, reds and silvers and violet and black, all different shades and intensities, keen on committing them to memory, just in case he will never be granted such privilege in this life.





	Paint My Soul Anew

**Author's Note:**

> Posted a bit late because of my birthday. Hope you like it! 
> 
> Meet Me Halfway will be updated soon, just bear with me, as I'm currently travelling and I'm in deep social activities I can't get out of. Thank you for understanding!

He's not a bloody poet, that's what he has always said, yet ever since he stumbled into her life he can't help but feel like one.

It's as if the doors to the Throne Room in Dragonstone have opened to a hidden world, full of beauty and wonder; as if his senses had been dulled in his death and now they have finally awaken.

Colours have never been as vivid to him as the moment his eyes fall on the Queen. So he admires them from a distance, reds and silvers and violet and black, all different shades and intensities, keen on committing them to memory, just in case he will never be granted such privilege in this life.

Rosy—the colour of her lips that he can't tear his gaze from as she descends from the throne to come at face level with him. He can't look her in the eye yet, her stare so intense he feels it burning right through what's left of his soul. He fights against the need to turn away, recoil into himself and protect his heart. So he settles his eyes on her lips; he can't stop his mind from pulling up some distant memory—the image of rosy petals of the flowers Lady Stark used to grow in Winterfell's glass gardens. He remembers how soft they were to the touch and can't help but wonder if her lips would feel the same.

Silver and white—or somewhere in between—the colour of her hair in the morning sun, as their paths cross on the beach on his way to mine dragonglass. He wonders how it would feel to thread his fingers through it, or feel it against his face. Would it be as silky as he imagines it? Would it feel like a thin veil draped over his chest? Would it feel as faint as fresh snow feels when falling on his cheeks? Without thinking, he offers her a small smile and his breath catches as she smiles back.

Red—the colour of her cheeks when he pays her the first compliment. It's a silly thing, he knows it as soon as the words stumble out of his mouth; yet her blush only further ignites him. He wants to see how much he can push and how red her pale cheeks can get. He wants to lean in and whisper the things he'd dreamed doing to her for the past moon. He wonders if the rest of her skin would turn the same shade or if it would be deeper. He wonders… yet he hides his face in his cup and takes a long sip. _Coward_ —a small voice whispers to him, and for a fleeting second he thinks she had been the one to say it.

Violet—the colour of her eyes when he meets her on the long staircase that leads from the castle to the beach. She calls for him just as the sun begins to set, and he can't help but think the gods have captured the twilight in her eyes. She has bells in her braids and she is wearing something similar to what her Dothraki bloodriders wear. "It's a celebration," she offers, "The Dothraki wish to honour me tonight and I can't deny them that. I-I'd like for you to join me." His heart skips four beats at once, for she almost sounds shy. She continues to look at him, eyes shining and a big smile on her face. Jon finally opens his mouth, "I'd love that very much." Her excitement is intoxicating; she pulls him by the hand down the rest of the stairs, until they reach the beach. Two horses—one white, one black—await for them. She effortlessly mounts on the white one, despite the lack of a saddle, and she invites him to do the same on the black horse. She gives a command in a guttural language and the horse sprints. He's frozen in place; that is until she looks back and winks at him. He feels the corners of his mouth pull up so wide it almost hurts. He catches up to her eventually, just in time to enter the Dothraki village, where her people receive her like the Khalessi she is. When he dismounts, she comes to pull him by the hand again and leads him to a big fire in the middle of the Dothraki tents. They drink and eat and celebrate well into the early hours; as the sun starts to rise again, they walk back together until they reach her chambers. She lingers and so does he; she appears to want to say something but decides against it at the last moment. "Good night, Jon Snow," she says and puts the heavy door between them. He dreams of her violet eyes for the next sennight.

White—the winter coat she wears when he approaches her and her three sons; last night she'd told him they are the only children she'd ever have; he said he didn't believe it and that it should not matter anyway. Her smile was teary as she finally agreed with him. "Do you trust me, Jon Snow," she asks now, her back turned to him as she is caressing the largest of the dragons. "Yes," he replies. His breath catches as she turns to face him; he takes her in, all of her, and he can't help but think how, despite being made of fire, winter suits her better. A primal voice calls to his blood— _mine_ . "And I, you," she finally says. The Queen offers her gloveless hand, a silent invitation; he doesn't think, just puts his bare hand in hers—his heart soars as he decides how they fit perfectly into each other. She gives it a small squeeze, then pulls on him to approach her, Drogon staring at him intently. There's no fear, just awe and desire to touch the creatures of fire made flesh. Their joined hands come up to the scaly hide. He thinks that he may cry; somehow he can't explain the feeling of fullness he experiences as he feels the heat emanating from the dragon go through his entire being, all the way to his toes. It doesn't stop there. When Drogon accepts him, he bows his head to the ground and props his wing in an inviting manner. She pulls him with her and instructs him what to hold onto. He is sitting behind her, slightly pressed to her back; he fights hard against the reflex of circling his arms around her waist and pulling her closer. Instead, she does it for him, as if it were the most natural thing. They fly. A few tears break loose this time, for this is a dream come true. He wonders if she even knows what she's given him. She takes him to the Wall and Jon doesn't understand why. She does a few swoops along the Wall until they finally see the dead close to Eastwatch. Drogon won't cross beyond the Wall, and Jon is thankful. He squeezes her closer, fear creeping up his spine; he'd never forgive himself if something were to happen to her because of him. She tenses, then relaxes as she finally turns Drogon around. They land as soon as they see grass, somewhere close to the sea. She nearly jumps from Drogon before he touches the ground, that's how shaken she is. She paces and he lets her come to terms with what they've seen. He wants to take it back somehow; he'd rather she never believed him and sent him back to Winterfell empty handed. He can't help but feel guilty that he'd taken away her peace, thrust her into an impossible endeavour that may lead to her death. So lost is he in his thoughts that he doesn't notice that she's invading his space until her now gloved hand rests on his arm. The wind blows through the white fur around her neck and the image of her in a cloak wearing his sigil, under the heart tree takes form in his mind. She says it's her duty to defeat the dead and actually _apologises_ for taking so long to trust him. He wants to wave her off, tell her that he understands and would have done the same, but her fingers move to rest on his mouth and he regrets that he can only feel the soft leather of her grey gloves. "No more clever plans; no more excuses," she shakes her head. Too soon, she pulls away. They fly back to Dragonstone.

Pure black—the silk dress she wears that very night at supper has him breathless and weak in the knees. It's just the two of them, no servants, no advisers, and he can't help but feel as naughty as a greenboy spending time alone with a girl. She tells him of her changed plans; how she's tired of doing nothing, so she'll go to King's Landing to give Cersei one last chance to surrender, if not, she'll take the city with as little bloodshed she can. He watches her face intently as she explains that Tyrion will lead Grey Worm and a dozen Unsullied through the tunnels; they are to speak to the people and convince them to open the gates to her forces when the time comes. She tells him it should work, for Varys has been smuggling food and other provisions into the city with the aid of his little birds. He doesn't know what expression he has on his face, but it must be something akin to worry, for she takes his hand in hers and assures him she is doing this so they can safely march North and destroy the Night King and his army. "I understand," he says, hoping to reassure her that his faith in her hasn't wavered. "The Wall will hold for now. I, for one, don't plan on meeting the army of the dead on their side of the Wall." Gods, she _thanks him_ for understanding that she can't leave Cersei in power, not if it means the people are starving and suffering while she goes to a war she may not win. He tells her he wants to fight for her, lead part of her forces if she'd allow him. She wants to retreat her hand but he hangs on tighter, brushing his thumb over her soft skin. She stares at their joined hands for so long, Jon would give anything to know what crosses her mind in that instant. She looks up at him, her pupils the same shade as her dress, drowning out all the violet to a faint circle. "I won't have the North accuse me of seducing their King into submission," she whispers. "You haven't," he retorts. She smiles at him—a soft spoken "Oh" all she adds. "I am bending the knee because you have given me everything, 'tis only fair of me to give something back," he explains. She breaks eye contact to reach for a strange looking fruit; she pops a few of the glossy seeds in her mouth.

Crimson—the fruit stains her lips. He catches himself before he leans in and steals a kiss, just to see if the colour would rub off. He is staring, he knows; his blood runs hot through his veins, exacerbated by the warmth she emanates. In that moment he has one wish—her. To love her, taste her, worship her. Would she let him? Before he can dwell on the answer to that question, she crushes her lips to his. _Yes_ —his mind, heart and body scream in unison. He pulls her into his lap, his hands roaming over and under the silks she dares call dress, her hands pulling on his hair; he opens his mouth to her and the fire consumes him. "Stay," she moans into his mouth; "Marry me," he breathes in between kisses. She stops to stare at him, search for something in his eyes and when she finds it, she kisses him harder. She pulls on his breeches, he pulls down her dress to taste her breasts; she wears no small clothes and he wants to cry in relief that she wants him as much as he wants her; she kisses his neck and he pinches her nipples; she finds his hard cock and hoists herself up to align it with her wet cunt; she slides down on him while looking in his eyes; they only break eye contact to kiss, and when she comes her nipples turn as crimson as her lips; he spends himself inside her and for the first time he dares hope for a life in which he is hers and only hers and he gives her as many children as she wants; he loves her, he finally admits it to himself, as she claims his mouth once more. He sleeps in her chambers and they walk together to the Small Council the next day. The troops have already left and Tyrion is to leave soon with Davos and Grey Worm. They announce their betrothal and their advisors congratulate them, as they admit they had been meaning to bring it up for the last moon. She kisses him one last time as he mounts on the horse she had gifted him—the steed he rode into the Dothraki village. "Come back to me," she whispers. "Promise me you'll be safe," he replies instead. He rides with her people to King's Landing to lay siege. Her plan works and it's over as soon as Cersei sends back the mutilated body of the peace envoy they sent inside the city. The people chant her name and they open the gates; when he reaches the Throne Room, Cersei's lifeless body lays on the Iron Throne, a golden hand clutched in her arms. He hears Drogon roaring outside, and he knows she's close. As he makes to leave, a voice he'd thought long lost calls his name; from the shadows, his little sister appears.

Milky—the colour of her skin in the morning sun, a few days after they take King's Landing; he never tires of kissing her everywhere. If he closes his eyes, he can still perfectly see her, all of her—his Queen, the love of his life, and in a few hours, his wife. There's no time to linger, for his sister brought news from his long lost brother, who's also at Winterfell now. She gave him two letters: one in which he explains that they will evacuate Winterfell, and that the army needs to meet them at the Neck, for the Night King has found a way to breach the Wall. The second letter tells of a love story between a wild Northern noble girl and a beautiful Targaryen prince, of their deep love and their sacrifices, of their son and of the girl's brother, who hid the boy so he could survive the wrath of a jealous man. Jon doesn't believe it at first, despite the small voice in his head telling him it's all true. He goes to her—his love and _his kin._ She cries and hugs him to her breast; she rocks him gently and calls him blood of her blood, tells him she loves him. He asks how and why, though he can't push her away. "My dragons already knew, Jon," she offers, staring into his eyes. He knows now too. She cradles his face in her hands and he leans into her loving touch. The more he looks at her, nothing changes; he still loves her, he still wants her. "Marry me," he says again. "I love you," she says instead, although it sounds more like a sob, and she kisses him so softly, he begins crying again. They marry and all he can see is her; he beds her again, this time as his wife. The day after, they fly together on Drogon to meet with his people at the Neck.

Burning red—the colour of the flames that engulf her and the Night King as Jon is again too late to save her. That's all he sees—red. Blood splattered against the white snow as Drogon goes down in mid flight, nicked by an ice spear. Blood on her white coat when they both crash down into the field. Blood in his eyes as a wight tried to claw at his face to prevent him from getting to her. Fire in his veins as he would not let the Night King have her. Fire and blood. His house, his family, _their_ family. He's not close enough, but close to need to shield himself from the dragon fire; the stream of infernal flames finally stops. It slows the Night King down, but doesn't kill him; he's looming over her, a hand almost reaching her and Jon runs as fast as he can. He has her by the throat now and he is staring into her eyes, but Jon can tell he is squeezing, by how red her face is and how hard she's clawing at his hand. Jon snaps; somehow he's there, Longclaw lodged all the way through the Night King's back. Nothing happens for a heart beat, but it feels like hours; he drops her do the ground and then he crumbles at Jon's feet. Somehow, he looks human again, and then he cracks into fine mist ice that gets blown away by the wind. The dead fall again, this time never to rise, as it should be. He doesn't care; he only has eyes for her—in his arms, crying, naked, bloody and sooty, but safe.

Screaming red—the small bundle the Dothraki midwives put into his arms; she looks exactly like her mother. He cries, for he had never thought he'd get to hold her; he cries because for once blood brings life; he cries because there's no lifeless body in a bed of blood this time; no—this time, Dany awaits for them both, with open arms. Blood means family. Blood means life. Blood brings happiness now.

Red and black forevermore.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing the first part of this as soon as I saw the prompt, but then I got too busy to continue it. I finally finished it this week but didn't find the time to post it on the corresponding day. As I'm posting on my birthday, let's consider this my thank you gift to all of you ❤


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